The Martian Pendant

by Patrick Taylor

  The sun had reached halfway to its zenith, shining weakly through the camouflage netting, by the time she was ready. Shafts of light played across the reddish surface of the craft, as the freshening breeze imparted waves of motion to the fabric overhead. Diana was wearing her snuggest one-piece swimsuit, which she thought would allow her to easily squeeze through the opening. She also had a camera with a flash attachment, and standing there, wearing sneakers and carrying all the paraphernalia, she looked small and vulnerable.

  With a last-minute check of the rhythm of the pumps, and after putting her equipment on a ledge inside, she smiled at Dan, gave him a hug, and squeezed inside headfirst. The closest she came to becoming stuck was at the hips, but by wriggling, she slipped through the opening.

  “By Jove,” she called excitedly, her voice hollow with the echoing, “This is quite fantastic!”

  She found herself standing in the foot of cool water that the pump had not cleared. Using her flashlight, she directed the beam in all directions. There was a low ceiling indicating the deck above, with a long companionway extending in either direction.

  Reaching outside for the light and the intercom, she said, “The walls are obscured with concretions like those that covered the ports. I think that at one time there were screens of some type covering the openings. I’m going forward to see what I can find now.”

  “Be careful, Di,” Dan called in a worried voice, “and don’t forget your camera.”

  As she proceeded up the long passageway, pulling the heavily insulated electrical cord after her, she remarked, “There are stalactites hanging down wherever water drips from the ceiling. This ship has been part of that underground river until now.”

  Moving slowly, holding the light ahead of her, she continued, “The walls or bulkheads are covered with a kind of limestone also, obscuring any signs, control buttons or switches that might be there. A more thorough exploration will certainly require hammer and chisel.” Then she exclaimed, “I say, this ship is inhabited.” Shining the light into the water covering her feet, she continued, “There are a few white cave-fish, and they’re nibbling on my shoes. I can’t see their eyes—but they must be blind anyway, just as in any underground stream.”

  Slowly moving toward the nose of the ship, she passed the sump pump placed through a forward port. Speaking through the intercom, she said, “You might as well shut off the water pump; the intake screen is clogged with tiny shrimp.”

  Taking photos and pulling the power cord and intercom line as far as it would go, she remarked, “What looks like stairs or a ladder is up ahead. I’m at the limit of my range now in that direction. I’d like to explore aft as far as possible today, but the water in that direction is deeper, really cold and beginning to sting, I think from alkali. Next time I’ll wear boots.”

  The Confessional

  The following day was a Sunday, and work around camp was put on the back burner. Pinkerton guards maintained a skeleton crew to keep the curious native laborers at a distance from the work, where otherwise they would steal odd pieces of equipment lying around. They also had to watch the truck drivers, who could photograph the work being done with the derelict ship, and sell the pictures to the newspapers.

  Max was the one to first alert them to the Italian, or rather, Sicilian drivers. He had taken a dislike to them as soon as he saw them flirting with his secretary and the other women. His disapproval was a joke among the dig crew, but it was then that Diana began to suspect that truck driving was not the main reason they were there. There was something furtive about the head driver, Staltieri, she thought.

  On that day, Celestre, in his clerical robe, looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, arrived in a small pickup with his portable altar and collapsible confessional booth. Most of the personnel from Chicago would have ignored him, had not the drivers lined up for confession. Diana was with Dan nearby, helping determine the stationing of the security guards.

  “Did you get a close look at that priest? I’m not Catholic,” she said, “But even if I were, he’d be the last person on earth to whom I’d confess.”

  As he surveyed the line of drivers at the tiny confessional, Dan said, “Maybe they didn’t get a good look at him before he closeted himself. As usual, the confessional booth is working both ways, obscuring one ugly priest along with the identity of the sinners.”

  When Staltieri seated himself inside, he hastily whispered to Celestre, “They’ve discovered an alien spaceship, made of an impervious material. It looks as if had been propelled by some form of nuclear engine. It was buried under almost 200 feet of rock, ash and earth. Rumor has it that it landed many thousands of years ago. Next time you come, I’ll have more information and possibly some films for development. Plans are underway for attempting an entry for further exploration of its interior tomorrow.”

  “But what about religious artifacts?” The priest asked. “They’re half my reason for being here.”

  The Mafia soldier ominously replied, “Don’t delude yourself, we own 90 percent of you. Don’t forget that, unless you want to become carrion for the hyenas and vultures out there.” Celestre shuddered at the thought, but said nothing more.

  With a malevolent smirk that the priest could not see, Staltieri asked sarcastically, “Aren’t you going to assign my penance and bless me, father?”

  Up the Steps

  That Monday, wearing knee-high boots, she entered the hulk once again. Slowly she climbed the stairs to the second level, dragging a longer power cord. As her light played around the passage leading from the landing on the next deck, she was horrified to see a large pair of red eyes shining in the light. As she reflexively leapt onto a nearby ledge, the monster came splashing and crashing against stalactites, lunging at her, its snapping jaws closer with each surge, propelled by its powerful tail. Realizing she had only one chance, she swung the light with its mesh guard against the bulkhead, breaking the bulb. Then she threw it into the blackness, at the onrushing reptile. The bare socket bounced off its scaly back and splashed into the water. She was nearly deafened as the crocodile roared loudly, the sound echoing for what seemed an eternity. Then there was quiet, as the thrashing ceased.

  She could hear her heart pounding in the darkness, but there was no other sound except the dripping of water from above. Shakily turning on her flashlight, she could see the contorted 20-foot monster still quivering. As she breathed a sigh of relief, she asked herself, Could there be others? Forgetting to stop and take photos, she didn’t wait to find out the answer to that question. She feared the reptile was so large that the 220 volts had merely stunned it. Despite her rubber boots, she was unsure if she would be safe from the effect of the electrical current herself, and asked over the intercom that it be turned off. Her back seemed particularly vulnerable as she hastily made her way down the stairs, wriggling rapidly out of the little port. As Dan greeted her with a warm blanket, she clung to him.

  “Oh, Danny, you can’t imagine the size of that horrible beast! Next time I’ll bring a rifle. Maybe by then the cutting equipment will be ready, so that armed men can accompany me.”

  Later, over strong coffee, she was the center of attention as she gave her account to a small group. Asking, “How could such a huge crocodile have gained entry through those small ports?” She then answered her own question, adding, “There has to be a larger entry on the other side. Otherwise, no diet of cave-fish and shrimp could ever satisfy the nutritional needs of a crocodile small enough to enter as I did, to grow so huge."

  After a short silence, Dan, who was sitting next to her, made an observation. “Because the openings are round, I doubt they’re entry ports, and they’re not right for ventilators. But if they served as doors, either the people on the craft were tiny and could walk through upright, or they were another type of being, not walking, maybe slithering.”

  “Oh, stop the joking, Danny,” she said. “I know they were people just like us. The stairs tell us that. Those ports really are for ventilation, you
see.

  Dan thought a moment. “If that were the case, why are the ports at the bottom of the ship rather than high up?”

  She said, “Maybe they were concerned about gases that were heavier than air, or that the ventilation system worked by gravity. Remember, there are probably at least a couple of decks.” Then she exclaimed impatiently, “You just have to trust me. You read my story. Isn’t everything generally right so far?”

  Max, shaking his head slowly during their exchange, then said sarcastically, “There was nothing in it about the giant crocodile. How do you explain that?”

  Diana regarded him with some surprise. “All that came later. They certainly wouldn’t have brought such a creature with them, and if they had, the ship would be littered with evidence of their remains. More than likely it is a huge Nile crocodile, a descendant of that Pleistocene monster that preyed on the primitive hominids of the time, Crocodylus anthropophagus.”

  After a night of broken sleep, punctuated by recurrent dreams of those shining blood- red eyes, she resolved to not go into the ship alone again, even with a rifle, as long as she was not certain about that crocodile still being alive. She needed a rest. Two straight days in that dank hulk, plus the encounter with the huge reptile, would have been too much for anyone, especially since the construction of the cutting device still hadn’t progressed. That meant the job would fall to her again, alone in the ship, possibly with a wiser crocodile to contend with. By that time she was certain that 220 volts could not kill a monster of that size. Looking back on that scene, she recalled its twitching while the current was on. Probably due to tetanic contractions from the 60-cycle current, she thought. She couldn’t stop thinking of that reptile in there, waiting.

  When she told Max and Ballard at breakfast of her decision to take a break, they pleaded with her. It was the geologist who brought up the need to re-enter the hulk soon to allay fears, but Diana just shook her head.

  Max said, “I heard you’re a crack shot, and with a hunting rifle, you’ll make short work of anything in there, even that big croc.”

  Groaning a little, she protested, “But my hunting has only been with my father, shooting small game for the table, using only birdshot or a .22.”

  Dan offered, “Let me take you out on the plain and we’ll practice on those pesky hyenas.”

  Diana looked at him dubiously. “Danny, I don’t have a taste for a hunt of that type, killing just for target practice.”

  Max interjected excitedly, “It’s a great idea! They’re becoming bolder each night. They have to be reminded of us, I’m afraid, with an occasional bullet.”

  Diana nodded at that suggestion. “True, one was sniffing around my tent during the night, making sleep more a problem than it already was. But I’m not using a BAR; almost sixteen pounds is far too heavy for me.”

  They all laughed, partially in relief. No telling how long it would be until the cutting device would be ready. Everyone was worried about the prospect of having to face the crocodile themselves.

  TWELVE

  A Maasai Youth

  It was decided that Diana would rest the next day, and then with Dan and Chet Crowley, the ranking Pinkerton, head out onto the plain for some rifle practice. Knocking off a couple of the pesky and dangerous hyenas would restore her confidence in the type of shooting she might have to do on her return to the ship. Big game shooting was something she had never done, or even wanted to do, before. But it would be essential, inside that hulk, that every bullet found its mark. Ricochets could be deadly.

  As the three of them sat out in front of the tents in the early evening after her day of leisure, Dan said, “Your experience with pheasant and rabbit hunting over the years with your father must mean your aim has to be good.”

  She replied, “That was one of the criteria for being nominated for ‘Miss London Outdoors’ in 1939, when I was in my teens. Along with other outdoor skills such as fishing, there were sports in which I won awards at school, swimming and running.”

  Dan said, “What about beauty? With all your abilities, plus your looks, you probably won hands down.”

  “No, indeed,” Diana replied, “One of the sponsors of the contest was a local industrialist, and his daughter took top honors.”

  Chet, the Pinkerton man, laughed and exclaimed, “That’s business fer ya. But you just had ta come in second.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, “I was runner-up, and it was enjoyable,” she continued, “And while all of us were athletic, I won hands down in the shooting. My father had taught me to use the smallest caliber possible for the target, in order to minimize the anticipatory flinching that can be a problem with high-powered weapons. He insisted I use a 410 gauge Remington for birds and a .22 for rabbits. I couldn’t have had a better teacher. He could drop a rabbit at fifty yards with a shot through the eye almost every time. We bagged so much game on those outings, the cook would barely speak to us for a day or two after our return.”

  “I’ll bet you still ate well after those trips,” Dan said, “But what about all that lead shot?”

  “Well, I didn’t contract lead poisoning,” Diana replied, “if that’s what you’re getting at, but we did have to chew very carefully.”

  The next morning they set out early. The sun was still behind the eastern hills, the dew not yet glistening in the early light. As they gathered for breakfast at the chuck wagon, the cook complained about the hour. Dan sat down next to Diana, giving her a peck on the cheek. Because of the Spam and reconstituted powdered eggs, he, like the cook, was grumpy.

  “This food reminds me too much of the Army,” he grumbled. “During the war for a time I was stationed in Northern California, outside Petaluma, which in those days was the chicken and egg capital of the world. They even called it ‘Chickaluma’ because of that, but we never saw even a single fresh egg.”

  Chet, sitting down across the table, said, “Naturally. They’d move all the eggs ta a processin’ center, dry ’em and ship ’em out ta all the bases, including where the eggs came from. Another example of the sayin’, ‘There’s the right way, the wrong way, and then there’s the Army way,’ wasn’t that it?”

  “You chaps and the military,” she offered. “When I was at University in London, there were three thousand men, almost all returning veterans, in my class. Of course, I was a returning vet also. All they ever spoke to me about was the tinned bully beef and powdered eggs. That must have really motivated them, because they were all business then. I was one of only three women in that entire year, and I can fry eggs to perfection.”

  Chet asked, “Are ya sayin’ Diana, that not one of all those fellers asked ya out?”

  “You’re indeed right, Chet,” she said, smiling broadly.

  He looked dumbfounded at that, adding, “That cain’t be London, can it?”

  Dan laughed, and said, “Not the London I know.”

  By that time, the cook, Grey, had gotten more in the spirit of the hunt, and set down a huge box of food on the table. Diana was surprised at its size and contents, some of them gourmet items.

  Happily, she smiled at him and said, “This is much more than we could hope for on our little adventure. What were you thinking?”

  Grey's tone was ironic when he replied, “I was one of those returning Tommies, a little while at university, and I never saw you among the few women there, but I wish I had.”

  After breakfast, with their big Army surplus scout car loaded with provisions, sleeping bags and weapons, all three piled in and drove off onto the plain just as the sun was rising.

  Diana remarked, “Remember, chaps, our aim is target practice, not big game. I would never hunt for trophies. Everything father and I bagged was food for the table.”

  “Ah hear ya,” Chet said, “But at the same time we have ta thin out that pack of hyenas. Ya’ll cain’t even leave yer tent at night without a rifle and a light because of ’em.”

  Dan added, “I’m with you there, Crowley. We’ve got to put more fear into th
em, or it won’t just be our garbage they come after.”

  They had jounced along slowly about five miles into the grassy plain; the sun was high and hot. In the distance, the shimmering heat waves distorted the surroundings so that, even with field glasses, it was difficult to distinguish the occasional small groups of cattle from large rocks. Neither moved in the heat. Soon the sun was almost directly overhead; no shade existed on the nearly treeless savannah. Around noon they stopped for lunch, enjoying Grey’s hearty sandwiches and coffee.

  Later, as they relaxed in the vehicle, Diana observed, “Look at those vultures wheeling to the south. Do you think that indicates a kill, or are they just riding the thermals, awaiting a potential feast?”

  Dan, who had been half-asleep in the back, said, “They’re surveying the plain, I think, for potential victims of the heat or those injured by predators.”

  She replied, “In my experience, at least with the buzzards over the fields at home, they ride the thermals that give them a lift while they await the scent of carrion rising on the same air currents. They rarely land near fresh kill. I’ve timed them; it may take as long as four days for the smell of a decomposing rabbit to attract them. Despite their keen eyesight, it’s their noses, if you can call them that, which count.”

  “Well, whatever it is, they seem ta be zeroin’ in on somethin’ out there.” It was Chet with the glasses. “We better check that out. Maybe it’ll lead us ta the hyenas.”

  Just then a single rifle shot rang out ahead of them. Diana asked rhetorically, “Do the Maasai use rifles for hunting? I thought they preferred spears, even for lions.”